As The Rains Come
by JusttMee123
Summary: AU. Dmitry never collected the reward for Anastasia's safe return, and Anastasia stayed in Paris with her grandmother. Years later, in a crowd of thousands, he sees her again.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello everyone! I was so glad to see they finally made a section for the musical Anastasia. I recently saw it on Broadway and fell in love with it all over again, and this story just came to mind after I listened to the soundtrack on repeat for a week. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

It was unusually cold for a spring day. There was a definite air of excitement in the streets of St. Petersburg, and so if anyone did notice the chill, they didn't mind enough to complain. Then again, it was such a special occasion that Dmitry doubted anyone would dare complain about anything. A single year free from communist rule was not enough to suppress the instinct to suffer in silence and grumble in private. Sometimes he thought that instinct would never go away, especially after a decade of its necessity. Only the foolish had the nerve to mouth off in front of officers, and he was not so reckless anymore.

In the three years since returning to Russia, Dmitry had turned a corner. He tried to make a living as honestly as possible and actively avoided those he had dealt with before his grand adventure to France. He swore to himself that he would never do something to draw attention to himself, and so far he had been succeeding. But he also knew that if he ever talked to his old partners again it would be a slippery slope back down into the life he'd fought so hard to escape. So while his earnings were slim, they were enough to get by and to afford a small apartment, and that was enough for him.

He didn't often think about the reward money for finding the lost Grand Duchess Anastasia, though it did cross his mind when times were especially tough. But no matter how cold or hungry he got, he couldn't bring himself to regret not taking the money. To him, helping return her to her family truly was all the reward he needed, and honestly he owed it to her after all he put her through. The shame alone prevented him from showing up when he was summoned. It was probably some sort of treason, ignoring the Dowager Empress, but no one had ever come after him. Perhaps it was only because they didn't know where to find him. He hadn't even told Vlad that he was leaving, much less where he was going, and he doubted anyone who knew him would think he'd return to St. Petersburg. But Petersburg had always been his home, so to him it made sense to go back.

And now she was coming back to St. Petersburg too, apparently, after all these years. He wondered if she'd be amazed at how the city had changed. Of course she most likely had more pressing things on her mind, as a new monarch. The revolution against the communists was mostly bloodless, and as the only surviving member of the Romanov family the crown was offered to the Grand Duchess first. Part of Dmitry wondered if she had wanted to abdicate and pass the title along to whomever was next in line. But it didn't matter if she had, because in the end she accepted the crown, reclaiming her birthright, and the Russian people were eagerly awaiting her arrival.

Schools and businesses were closed for the day, and the people flooded the streets. Children waving flags were perched atop their parents' shoulders and the especially rowdy sang patriotic songs. Word on the street was that this day was now a national holiday. It was the day Russia was supposed to be reborn into a new and beautiful country.

Dmitry was skeptical about that last part though; he (and the rest of Russia, for that matter) had heard that promise so many times, and each time it got worse than the last. He wanted to believe more than anything that this new government would succeed, for a number of reasons. Somewhere along the line it had been decided to combine the monarchy with a bit of democracy. Supposedly the people would be able to elect the people they wanted to speak on their behalf, though the new Tsarina would have the final say. It was supposed to be the best of both worlds. And it would be different this time. Anya knew what it was to be homeless. She knew the value of a coin, had spent years in the gutter with the Russian people, though at the time no one knew it. Anya knew their struggles, and deep down Dmitry suspected Anya was still there somewhere in Anastasia. Dmitry shuddered to imagine what the people would do to her if it failed. He knew he wouldn't be able to watch.

Standing under a tree in front of his apartment, Dmitry knew exactly when the parade turned the corner.

The songs and conversations faded into a roar of excitement, and waves of people rushed the barricades that lined the streets. Swept forward with the crowd, Dmitry struggled to hang onto his hat and footing. Everyone around him was shouting her name, her real name, as her carriage slowly made its way through the streets before heading up to the palace. Children waved and blew kisses, their parents pointed and laughed with joy. The lost princess was home.

Dmitry felt an odd plunging sensation in his stomach as he watched her wave back at the crowds. She looked exactly as he remembered her, albeit maybe a bit better fed. Her cheeks had a healthy roundness to them that he had never seen on her before, and they were rosy in the chill of the day. It was a strange feeling, being so close to her, and she didn't even have a clue. To her, he was once again just a faceless commoner in a sea of people. Instantly he was brought back to that June day, now over twenty years ago. He had caught her attention and bowed, making her smile, and for one second he had felt important. He had been the one to make the princess smile, of everyone there that day. He had been noticed, been memorable. And though a part of him longed to stand out to her again, he knew he wouldn't.

He wondered what might happen if he did run up to the barricade and bow to her again. He'd like to believe she'd recognize him instantly and stop the parade. He'd be allowed to approach her carriage and sweep her down to his level. Up there she seemed larger than life, so far away. But once she got down to his level she would be his Anya again. She would always be Anya to him. Not the Grand Duchess Anastasia. Not this new title, Her Imperial Highness Tsarina Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov, Empress of all Russia. Just Anya, a fellow orphan and street rat.

As her carriage passed, she turned her head in his direction, staring at the exact spot where he stood. Terror immediately swept over him. Because what if he was recognized? The last time they had seen each other, she had been so angry with him. He couldn't blame her. She had every right to be angry, and sometimes when he thought back to that moment he thinks she wasn't angry enough. He had deserved much worse, and she had deserved much better. He left the room when the Dowager Empress showed up to talk to Anya, and he never saw either of them again. In hind sight, he wishes he'd at least left a note apologizing and begging for her forgiveness, but he was so focused on getting out of Paris that it didn't cross his mind until he was already back in Petersburg.

In a second, his mind swung to the opposite extreme. He was sure that she would stop the parade. She would point at him and yell for the guards to arrest him. He wouldn't run as the guards approached. He wouldn't resist if they threw him to the ground. He knew he deserved it, and deserved her anger. She would watch the entire thing silently from the carriage, and he would not be able to meet her eye. Arresting him would be her first act as the leader of her country.

But instead her gaze swept right over him and continued on. She waved to the crowd, a politely interested expression on her face. But Dmitry could tell by the stiffness of her shoulders and the set of her mouth that she was rather disinterested. He'd seen the same expression on her face a thousand times in the old Yusopov palace when he and Vlad were coaching her in her own family history.

He would have to be more careful. Now that she was back in Petersburg, he couldn't give her any reason to suspect he was there too. He feared he'd have to work extra hard to stay off her radar. Angry or not, she was still the leader of his country, and he was simply a man. He would never be on the level of even holding her hand, and he wasn't foolish enough to pretend he would be. To end up alone in a room with her would be dangerous for both of them for a number of reasons, so he vowed her would never give anyone any reason to call him to the palace. It was better that way.

Some of the crowd followed the carriage as it made its way down the street, but Dmitry stayed where he stood. He closed his eyes briefly, replaying the moment she happened to glance in his direction. She hadn't seen him standing there among the crowd, but he'd been close enough to see her face. It had been more than he had ever hoped for. When he opened his eyes again, her carriage had already turned the corner at the end of the street and was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello again! I've been struggling with my other story, Run to You (shameless plug), so I thought I might try and help that by writing something else. I had definitely considered writing a second part of this from Anya's point of view, and ultimately thought no one would want that. But then so many people requested it! So here it is, I hope you like it._

* * *

There was absolutely nothing stopping her from fleeing back to Paris, so Anastasia wasn't quite sure what she was still doing in St. Petersburg.

Maybe it was the guilt. Her entire family had died over their right to rule, and now that she had a chance to reclaim their dynasty, how could she not? As the sole survivor of the massacre in Yekaterinburg, she was also the sole heir of her father, Nicholas II. Never mind that she was not male. She was still the direct descendant of the last Tsar, and that placed her first in line for the throne.

Maybe it was pride. The Bolsheviks and the Communists alike had kidnapped, tortured, and killed, desperately trying to quash any rumors of the Romanovs. The time of kings was in the past, they said, and the power now belonged to the people. And in the end they had failed. They had failed to kill her, they had failed to suppress the Russian people, they had failed to even put an end to the rumor of her survival. She had become a symbol of hope to all the citizens of the country. She suspected that was why there had been so few attempts on her life since Gleb had cornered her before the press conference in Paris. No one wanted to make a martyr of her and risk inciting the people's wrath.

She wondered what had happened to Gleb, both after he returned to Russia and after the coup. He had been right all along. A revolution was an incredibly simple thing. It was what happened after the revolution that was complicated.

Anastasia tried to push Gleb from her thoughts, but it was too late. It seemed to be inevitable; her thoughts, as they always did, migrated from Gleb to Dmitry. Her prince.

No, not her prince. He was nothing but a coward.

A coward she missed dearly. Her brush with death by Gleb's hand had left her shaken, and all she could think about in that moment was Dmitry. She had searched for him high and low, and had even enlisted Vlad's help. But he had gone without a trace. Later she had learned that Vlad hadn't even known Dmitry had left until she had asked for his help.

Maybe it was the spite keeping her there. How many times in the past three years had she heard people claiming she was an impostor? All the would-be actresses emerging from the woodwork, claiming they were the real Grand Duchess and that she was the fake herself. All nonsense, of course. But how many times had she also heard from the members of the court that she was unfit to be a ruler? After all, her schooling in childhood did not include politics or foreign affairs. As the last-born daughter, she was possibly the least important of the imperial children. Her duty had been to be married off to a foreign nobleman. She was never meant to ascend to the Russian throne and they all knew it.

But everything she had done in childhood had been out of spite. If someone told her not to climb a tree, she did just that. Why should this be any different? People had said she knew nothing of running a government, so she went out and learned everything she could. She attended every state affair and meeting with Lily, she took lessons from Nana. She did everything in her power to prove all of the doubters wrong, and was determined not to let it go to waste. She imagined the looks on all their faces when she succeeded would be worth it.

Maybe it was spite that made her hang on to Dmitry, too. He had decided to leave her behind, so she had to hold on to whatever she could of him.

There was no doubt in her mind that it would be easier to let go of him. It was very clear by now that he was not coming back. And yet, she was still haunted by him. The early days were the worst, when she saw him everywhere. She would catch a glimpse of his face and push her way toward it, and in the end it was always someone else. People would whisper and stare, some tried to claim she needed to be in a hospital for these hallucinations. Nana never permitted it, of course. With time she learned to ignore both the stares and the glimpses of Dmitry as best she could.

Maybe it was her home that was calling to her. But no, that couldn't be right. It didn't feel like St. Petersburg was her home anymore. Between the decade of living on the streets and the past three years in France, she no longer felt a connection to the city. She wasn't even sure she wanted to step foot into the old Winter Palace, either. How could she, when the last time she had been there she had been with her parents and siblings? She was certain that if she stayed there, all she would be able to see was their absence.

Maybe she could order the palace to be destroyed and rebuilt. She was, after all, going to be the Tsarina. She had all the authority to do it.

Maybe she could order Dmitry to be found, too.

 _'No,'_ she thought forcefully. That was a stupid idea. There was a good possibility he wasn't even in Russia; for all she knew he could have gone to America. Besides that, she didn't even know what she'd say to him if she ever did see him again. She had thought about it on plenty of occasions. What she imagined saying to him varied depending on her mood.

Sometimes she imagined calling him a coward to his face. She would scream at him and berate him, and maybe even hit him a little. He would look appropriately ashamed until she decided she had had enough and sent him away.

Sometimes she imagined herself falling to her knees in front of him and begging for his forgiveness. She knew it would shock everyone, a Grand Duchess kneeling before a commoner. She had been cruel to him the last time she saw him, and she knew it. She had been angry, and she still felt she had had the right to be. But she also should have listened to what he had to say for himself. She saw it all clearly now that she had some distance, and she only wished she could apologize to him for her harsh words.

She could never imagine what he said back to her.

Anastasia stepped outside into the chill of the day and shivered. It was never this cold in Paris, and especially not in April. She wondered if she would ever get used to Russia's climate again. Maybe she should abdicate the throne, solely so she could return to France. She laughed a little to herself at that idea. As if anyone would let her do that, her grandmother included. Besides, some part of her did want this too, or else she never would have chosen it. Maybe she didn't completely think it all the way through, but she did want it.

She wanted a lot of things.

It was her idea to have a parade. Her advisors, Nana and Vlad all told her it was a bad idea. She knew why. She was a very prominent public figure now, and they would not be able to protect her if she was out in the open in a carriage. If someone chose to throw a bomb or shoot a gun, there would be nothing anyone could do. She still insisted.

Vlad was the one who saw right through it, and reminded her in private that they had no idea where Dmitry was, but it was extremely unlikely that he returned to Russia.

Now she was wishing she had listened to them.

Naturally the entire thing was bringing up memories of _that day._ She knew it would. In fact, she had kind of been counting on it. But she had been so focused on the memory of a young Dmitry that she had forgotten about the memories that had nothing to do with him.

Her sisters, chattering amongst themselves in excitement. Her baby brother whining about how hot it was in his suit. Mama tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, instructing her to keep her composure. Papa smiling as he helped her up into the carriage. The bumpiness of the ride. It all came back to her in a rush, nearly choking her. A nearby attendant touched her elbow and asked if she was alright. Anastasia waved him away, squaring her shoulders and stepping up into the carriage. She had made this decision, now she would have to live with it and its consequences.

But it was harder than she expected to keep the memories at bay. As her carriage passed through the streets of St. Petersburg, she managed to keep her small, polite smile on her face and wave, but her mind was a million miles away. People cheered as she passed the place where she was beaten up for her blanket. Someone called out "Long live the Romanovs," as she passed the train station that would take her family to Livadia. A group of people bowed and curtsied as she passed the old Yusopov Palace.

And there were ghosts everywhere she looked. There were Olga and Maria, standing by side of the road, waving flags. There was her mother, shouting something with her fist in the air. There were her father, Maria and Alexei, holding a homemade banner. There was Tatiana, singing along with the crowd. There was Dmitry, watching silently beneath a tree.

She longed to close her eyes and block them all out, but even that wouldn't bring her any peace. Besides being extremely rude to her citizens, she knew the ghosts wouldn't leave her alone. They followed her everywhere, sometimes even into her dreams. She wondered if they would ever allow her to find peace.

A tear rolled silently down her face, invisible to the crowd below her that continued to cheer.


End file.
